Story [The Silmarillion] "calling as he used to call", Beren/Lúthien, 80's Music Roulette, Part 3 up 10/07

“calling as he used to call, faint and far away”

Fandom: The Silmarillion and other Histories of Middle-earth
Genre: Family, Romance
Time Frame: Year 470 of the First Age
Characters: Beren/Lúthien, Emeldir/Barahir, Melian/Thingol, Celeborn/Galadriel, and too many others to mention

Summary: Whilst in Menegroth for the approaching birth of their son, Lúthien takes it upon herself to grapple with the demon still battling her husband's heart - whether or not Beren approves or wants of her aid.

Or: We are all first children, even as we become parents ourselves, and Emeldir the Man-hearted is still alive and well - hearing only of her son and his great deeds through songs and whispers. Now, no matter the wishes of her husband, Lúthien seeks to change that – for the betterment of all involved.


Notes: My number 11 for the http://boards.theforce.net/threads/tunes-to-inspire-1980s-roulette.50031261/#post-52504799]80's[/url] Music Roulette gave me Foreigner's 'I Want to Know What Love Is', and I immediately knew that I wanted to write a healing and moving on sort of piece in reply. Even if that 'love' turned into the familial sort, it's impossible to write Beren/Lúthien without a big ol' dollop of mush, so here we are, with the best of both worlds. This piece turned a bit . . . long for a one-shot, even by my standards, so I'm almost certain that it's going to be five parts total when I'm done.

For those of you who are not as familiar with this part of Tolkien's world as you may be with the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit, but are still interested in reading, I have some notes to set the story up – which you can read now or feel free to reference to as you need.

Briefly put -

Beren and Lúthien: Tolkien's greatest love story. Lúthien was the elven princess of Doriath, and Beren was the mortal man who won her heart. For them to marry, her father demanded that Beren complete a quest to retrieve one of the three Silmarils from Morgoth's crown – no doubt hoping that Beren would die in his failure, and Lúthien would grieve and eventually move on. Predictably, this quest led to much pain and heartache, and even the deaths of Beren and Lúthien. But Lúthien pleaded with Námo (the Vala presiding over the Dead), and he returned them to life anew underneath the condition that Lúthien live out her life as a mortal woman. This is the reason that their descendants, as Half-elves, have the ability to choose between immortality and mortality. (Arwen is their great-great-granddaughter, and Aragorn is their sixty-five times great-grandson – thus bringing Beren and Lúthien's story full-circle. How is that possible, you ask? Long story short: Elrond's twin brother Elros chose mortality over immortality, and as he was the heir to all off the First Three Houses of Men, he became the first King of Númenor, the land that Gondor and Aragorn descended from. The movies were a bit vague on that family history, if that's all you're familiar with. )

Melian and Thingol: The King and Queen of Doriath, and Lúthien's parents. Thingol is one of the Firstborn of the Elves, and the original King of the Sindar (for example, Elves like Celeborn and Legolas and Thranduil). Melian was a Maia who chose to live in a physical body after meeting and falling in love with Thingol.

Emeldir and Barahir: Beren's parents. Barahir was Chieftain of the House of Bëor after the deaths of his father and brother in the Dagor Bragollach – the Battle of Sudden Flame - where Morgoth destroyed the land of Dorthonion and much of the north, thus putting a huge dent in the Siege of Angband the Noldorin Elves were trying to hold. Sometimes, it is easy to forgot just how amazing Beren's story was before he ever met Lúthien – he was a hero in his own right, and so much of a thorn in Morgoth's side that Sauron was tasked exclusively to his destruction. Not too shabby, eh?

Barahir's Company: They are the reason I chose the Robin Hood throwback for the title. (Which is from the poem Sherwood by Alfred Noyes and perfectly haunting and lovely. ) Since the House of Bëor was sworn to protect the lands of Dorthonion, after the Bragollach, Barahir and twelve brave men remained as outlaws in order to drive as much of Morgoth's filth from the land as they could. They succeeded for five years until one of their men, Gorlim, visited his old home, and thought to see his wife still alive within. This turned out to be an illusion of Sauron, who captured Gorlim, and, after torture, promised to reunite Gorlim with his wife if he betrayed the location of Barahir and his men. Gorlim finally gave in, and Sauron 'reunited' the couple by killing Gorlim. But Gorlim's spirit found Beren – who had been spying ahead, and was separate from the group – to tell him what had happened. Beren arrived too late to save his father, but avenged Barahir by killing the Orc-captain who had carried out Sauron's orders. For four more years, Beren would evade all of Sauron's attempts to capture him – instilling hope with his tale far and wide – and after crossing south through the horrors of Nan Dungortheb, he would come upon Doriath and Lúthien – and the rest is history.

The Valar: Vala, singularly. They are the creators of the world, under the direction of Eru ('God', in Tolkien's universe).

The Maiar: Maia, singularly. They are the spiritual helpers of the Valar. Gandalf and Sauron, for example, are Maiar.

Morgoth: Originally named Melkor. He is an evil Vala, the original Dark Lord who sewed discord into the creation of the world. Sauron was his Lieutenant, and adored him in all things – and carried on his evil ways in his honor after his eventual defeat at the end of the First Age. (The Lord of the Rings and the The Hobbit occur at the end of the Third Age, and Aragorn's reign starts the Fourth Age, for reference.)

Angband: Morgoth's fortress in the north. Think of it as the original Mordor.

The Silmarils: Which the Silmarillion is named for. They are hallowed gems of unparalleled beauty, created by Fëanor, which hold the light of the Two Trees (the sources of light the sun and moon were created from). Though beautiful beyond compare, the hold mesmerizing properties, and good things never happen to their bearers. As Doriath learns for the ill in the years to come.


. . . and I think that covers the biggest plot points, though I may add more notes as we go. For now, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy.

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I​

The dream went, as it often did, in this way:

Never did Beren first remember the eerie silence of the clearing, and the carnage the Orc-host had left in their wake. Instead, he remembered the few years his father's band of outlaws had together beforehand. He remembered kneeling by the river in the misty light of early morn, keeping a careful eye on the shadows between the towering cedar and hemlock trees as Belegund and Baragund filled their group's water-skins with quick, practiced gestures. By his cousins' side, Gorlim sat in a similar state of watchfulness as Beren, though he did not look to the forest in favor of twisting the point of his blade in the damp soil, his eyes absent to all surrounding him.

Belegund darted a look at the other man as he capped off the next canister, frowning as he took in Gorlim's melancholy – a shadow that had failed to leave him as the months passed and their band of companions fought steadily onwards against Morgoth's hold over Dorthonion.

“What weighs upon you today, my friend?” even still, Belegund forced a note of cheerfulness into his voice; something that was ever his wont, even in the darkest of times.

Gorlim was silent for a long moment. Beren did not first think that he would answer. “Had she lived, Eilinel and I would have been married some fifteen years this day.”

Initially, they were all quiet in response to Gorlim's announcement, for there were few words that could truly be said in reply. Though Beren had neither a wife or child before Ladros was destroyed, Belegund . . . Baragund . . .

“And my Rían shall turn seven summers come the new moon,” Belegund had to swallow in order to say. The easy disposition ever softening his features then faltered. Nonetheless, he reached over to place an understanding hand on Gorlim's shoulder. “And with the first day of autumn, I will be ten years wed, myself.”

Baragund was merely silent as his brother comforted their companion; for, at twelve summers, his own daughter Morwen had been old enough to understand her father's departure, and she had turned into her mother's side and refused to even bid him goodbye, standing stiffly with a hurt and anger then too big for her young bones to carry. Rían, then little more than a babe at four, had merely cried and cried as her father kissed her goodbye. He could still remember her tears if he but closed his eyes . . . Beren swallowed, and told himself not to think about that day outside of the ruins of Ladros. Not now.

Gorlim, however, did not seem to notice the hand on his shoulder. His glazed eyes did not once look away from the point of his blade.

“Yet, your wife still lives, as does your daughter – as far as you know,” Gorlim whispered to say. “Yet, my Eilinel . . . I do not know if I would have been able to follow Barahir, noble though his purpose may be, had I known for certain of her living. In that way, I . . .” He then pursed his lips, and his words faltered, no matter that he did not seem to be shamed to utter them. “Verily, I do not know how you manage it – any of you.”

“I manage it,” Baragund's voice was a low rumble where his brother's words had been soft with sympathy, “by remembering that I fight for them, and for the chance that they may be able to live long and peaceful lives, without the shadow of Morgoth hanging over their heads. As a husband, as a father, I can do nothing less than that.”

“And you believe that we mere thirteen may accomplish such a feat? We paltry few?” Gorlim gave a short, incredulous bark of laughter. “We are but a thorn in the side of great Angband's might. Do you honestly think that we make a difference here – truly? Or, are we merely sheep, unaware of the fact that we have been selected for the slaughter?”

“Morgoth has not been able to catch us yet,” Beren at last chose to speak, his belief in his father and his determination for the rightness of their cause then greater than any fear he had for the future to come. “Even if we few eventually fall, we have been enough of a thorn to at least prick the Dark Lord's palm, and with the forces he has spared searching for us, who knows what other innocents may have suffered in our place?”

“You speak with the optimism of youth,” Gorlim snorted to say, his voice low with despondency. “Someday, you will look back on such naivety and wonder how you ever held such a belief within you.”

“I hope that such is never the case,” Beren shook his head, pursing his mouth into a thin line - a stubborn line, one his father had often smiled to say that he inherited from his mother.

. . . but thoughts of Emeldir were still as a bruise upon his heart, and he could not think of her for long without grief overtaking him. Beren swallowed, and tried to find his words again – trying to think of anything he could say or do to ease the pain so clearly written in Gorlim's eyes.

But, his words – or anyone else's – were interrupted by a whistling noise from further down the river. Instantly they looked up, searching for a foe in the tall slopes leading down to the water's edge. But all they could see was the mist rising with the overcast, purple morn, forming as specters between the tall, silent evergreens. They could not yet see their quarry, but they could hear the familiar clash of steel upon steel, and at the sound of his father's battle-cry . . . They took off running, the water forgotten, and as the trees rushed past them, Beren looked to his side to see Gorlim's eyes lit with a crazed, fevered light. Eilinel's name was the cry on his tongue when he rushed headlong into the fight, his motions all the ferocity of a summer storm as he exorcised his pain and his grief by -

- but the dream shifted, and Beren was then alone in the forest, he having scouted on ahead with no one but the birds and woodland creatures to keep him company. It was night, and he sat upright in the cave he had taken refuge in - roused from his sleep by a presence pushing in against his dreams, certain that there was a specter calling to him from the mist. He squinted, and found that a ghostly apparition had indeed reached down to stir him from his sleep – but, he felt no fear before the apparition, for the spirit held a familiar face, and a familiar cloud of sorrow followed him as he seemingly took on his form from the light of the stars and sickle moon above.

But that grief was now joined by guilt, Beren was slow to understand. He was slow to understand much of anything, with Gorlim rising from the mists before him, and when the specter spoke to say: “My lord, but I am sorry,” he sounded unerringly as he had in life. In life. Beren felt a sudden pang of dread pierce through him as a sword-point, and he feared . . .

“I am not your Lord,” Beren had not understood the specter's words.“My father is yet Bëor's heir, and he shall remain so for as long as he lives. You know this, Gorlim.” But his voice was more a question than a statement; his words faltered, his great belief failing him.

“Yet, no longer shall Barahir walk and draw breath in Dorthonion, for I have erred, and for my weakness of heart, they shall pay in blood. I . . . I have not the words within me to express my regret . . . and my grief, wretched creature of Shadow that I now am. I only hope that you can reach them in time, and fix what ill my grief has wrought.”

It had not taken the specter long to explain the false vision he had of his wife, and Sauron's promise to see him reunited with Eilinel again should he betray the location of Barahir and his men. And oh, but Gorlim was now now able to seek his wife's side, but in death – for the Dread Maia had kept his promise, and kept it well, and Beren . . .

Sauron now knew where his father was camped in Dorthonion, and if he did not move quickly . . . The dream blurred by, keeping but little of his travels and yet calling to mind the sick sort of dread and debilitating fear he had felt, hating that he had been separated from his father's company then, of all times! He could have stood by their sides, he could have fought, and, perhaps, through that fighting -

As it did, every time, the dream showed him an unerringly accurate rendition of the carnage he'd found when he arrived, mercilessly reminding him how Belegund and Baragund had fallen with their backs to each other, side by side in death as they always had been in life . . . Cruelly, the dream showed him how Gildor's shield arm had been cast aside before his father, as he had fought to the very end to protect his leige-lord and dearest friend. Then . . . Urthel . . . and Arthad . . . with Radhruin and Dairuin fallen side by side, much as his cousins had been. Hathaldir and Dagnir he had not been able to identify, and Ragnor he was only able to recognize by the orange-red mark of his blood-matted hair . . .

. . . not a one of them had survived, and they had been left in their own gore to rot with the corpses of the Orcs they had managed to take with them into death – for the Lieutenant of Angband was as interested in the care of his own servants as he was in the last rites of his enemies. Beren had not been able to breathe, he had not been able to weep or scream as he so very wanted to, instead moving through a numb sort of haze as he fell to his knees by his father's side. His father, who should have had many years yet still before him . . . who should not have yet left him . . . who should have not yet been taken from him. His hands shaking, Beren had reached over to wipe away the black blood from where it had spattered over Barahir's face, and he closed the clear grey eyes – just like his own - that stared sightlessly up at the night sky above the clearing. His mouth was still open, and, inordinately, Beren wondered if such was from the pain of his wounds, or, perhaps, his mother's name had been the last breath his father had given . . . and oh, his mother. Though Emeldir must have assumed herself a widow for many seasons now, to have such a thing confirmed . . .

His breath was seemingly caught in his throat then; he could not keep his hands from trembling as he turned his father's body over to search for Finrod's ring, knowing that was the only token he would keep in memory of Barahir after he . . . after he buried him, the thought was not yet quite real to him.

Yet, he could not find . . .

With a sickening lurch to his stomach, he realized that the Orcs had taken Finrod's ring – and his father's hand – as a trophy to present to Sauron as proof of their deeds that day. Beren could not help it – he then turned, and heaved the contents of his stomach into the bent and trampled grass beside his father's body. Every time he inhaled the stench of rot and old blood anew, he only seemed to retch up further, long after his stomach had anything more to give. He heaved until he could no more, and even then his body was overtaken by a terrible shaking, one he could not control as choked sobs finally made their way past his lips. But he could not yet give into grief, not when anger - righteous and consuming and pained - was then searing through him, and he knew -

- he tilted his head back and screamed. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, feeling as if his spirit cried along with his voice, knowing that while he dug their graves and laid his companions to rest, that he too should have slept forever in that dark earth. He too should have found his peace next to Barahir and his men, but instead he lived. He lived where they had died, and he could not fight that terrible guilt and knowing away, no matter how he tried . . .

- At last, Beren was aware of a gentle pressure upon his shoulder, turning more forceful when he did not so easily leave his dreams behind him.

His eyes snapped open in the darkness, his senses alert and his limbs poised for movement, for battle - and it took him a moment to recognize the soft hush of the night, understanding then that he had left the horrors of Dorthonion far behind him. There were no shadows in this night but for those natural, and by his side underneath that dark veil . . .

Lúthien's silver-grey eyes were very bright in the night, holding a whispered memory of her former glory - one that mortality and the promise of eventual death had not been able to completely take away from her. Now they were wide with concern, and her brow furrowed as she reached over to stroke his own brow, worry clearly expressed on her every feature. He leaned into the soft comfort of her touch, finding his breath still shaky in his lungs as he exhaled. His throat was tight when he tried to breathe in deep again.

“You dreamed,” she said softly. “You cried out in your sleep.” She did not bring herself to guess of what ill memory plagued him. From his years alone in Dorthonion following his father's death, fighting off Sauron's ilk at every turn; to his time escaping the north through the horrors of Nan Dungortheb, which he had not yet even spoken to her about; to their own trials together - from the jaws of the wolves on Sauron's black isle, to the path that brought them before Morgoth's very throne and death . . . there were many ills amongst his memories for his nightmares to glean from. Oddly, he did not dream of his own death but rarely, remembering only a twilit shore and a sea like glass, without ripple or wave or current. He remembered digging his feet into the black sand, and refusing to move onwards when Námo summoned his soul, fighting against the promised rest and healing and peace much as she had fought, until, blinking, he had opened his eyes again.

“It was merely a memory,” Beren found his voice heavy as he assured her. Reflexively, he held his wife closer, and ran the back of his fingers from her elbow to her shoulder and back again, unsure if he sought to sooth her or himself with the touch. Lúthien frowned, and before she could ask, he elaborated, “My father.” He had to swallow after saying so, and felt as if he did so around a stone.

Her features softened, and she turned to rest her head against his chest once more, sighing. When she still bore her elven-bones and fey-blood she had glimpsed his dreams on those long nights as they journeyed closer and closer to Angband. Though she could not share his memories or touch his mind now, as she once could, she still remembered what she had once seen, and she exhaled in understanding, her own lungs tight with the gesture.

“I am sorry, beloved,” she whispered. “Many are the burdens your mind carries, and if I could . . .” she faltered, troubled by the foe she could not face but to merely help him endure.

“Yet,” Beren assured her, moving his hand to brush through the heavy fall of her hair, “thanks to you, my memories are more pleasant than ill these last four years, and only at night do such thoughts rise to plague my mind.”

Lúthien still frowned, but he wanted no more of such black words that night. Instead, he moved his arm so that he could reach between them, feeling the soft bump of their child beneath her sleeping shift. Such was their reason for being on the road in the first place – and he then let his concern for his wife sleeping on the ground and spending long hours in the saddle rise higher than his grief for his own memories. Lúthien had been adamant about wanting her mother to help her through the last days of her pregnancy, and she most certainly wanted her there during their son's delivery. Beren had agreed – trusting the might of Melian for a midwife more so than the Green-elves they had come to know, or, he let himself smile with the thought, the Onodrim who walked the River-lands and were quite enchanted by his wife. And, simply put, Lúthien wished to share their joy with her parents and her kinsmen. Such was a wish Beren could understand, even as the idea was one that caused his throat to thicken with memories of his own family, ever as he was seemingly swallowing the bitter along with the sweet.

However, the winter had lingered late into that year, even further to the south in Ossiriand, and they had departed later than Beren would have cared to. Lúthien was more than four months along now, and though she assured him that she – and their child – were quite well, he still worried. He was relieved that they would be crossing the river Aros and the Girdle of Melian come the morning, and then it was but a day's journey to Menegroth.

“More are my blessings than my tragedies,” Beren at last found his smile in order to say. “You have seen to that, dear heart. You and our son, both.”

Lúthien's look softened, and though her eyes were still troubled, she nonetheless let him be. She tilted her head in order to kiss him for his words, answering him without speaking as a sweet sort of warmth filled them both, and then she pulled away to settle in against him once more. He then knew of her weariness for the way she did not push to speak of his dreams any more than that. The journey had been taxing on her, he knew, though she would never say.

“Sleep,” Beren finally bid of her, kissing the crown of her hair as she laid back down against his chest. “You need your rest, as does our son. And,” he pitched his voice in a more conspiratorial whisper, “I do, as well, if I am to greet your father upon the morrow.”

He could feel Lúthien smile, and imagine that she rolled her eyes. For, while Thingol no longer seemed to wish for his death - not that Beren could tell, anyway - relations were still strained between the Elven-king and his good-son. Since Beren had given up his own life in keeping the wolf from Thingol, and returned from the brink of the Beyond with Lúthien, Thingol had tried, in his own way, to accept his place in his daughter's life. But there were still many hurts laid out on the path behind them, and there would be a long road ahead filled with dips and turns as they healed – as they all healed.

Yet, a mortal's allotment of time had a way of quickening such healing, Beren knew, and he only hoped that the idea of a grandchild would be a welcome one to Thingol and Melian – eager as he was to see his wife completely at peace with those who loved her once more.

It did not take Lúthien long to succumb to sleep again, and Beren prayed that her dreams were fair ones. Although he knew that he too needed the rest, he found himself ill to the thought of returning to his own dreams. Instead, he remained awake as the night continued on, keeping watch over his wife and child until the sun rose to crown the land again.



.

.

Her dream went, as it often did, like this:

After nearly four-hundred years, the Siege of Angband was finally broken, and the north of Beleriand was the first to suffer from the force of Morgoth's hatred and wrath. The highlands and pine forests of Dorthonion were overtaken with flame as the Dragon led that wave of unholy might from black Angband, devouring everything in his wake. Ladros burned, and Emeldir could not tell day from night as the sky blackened and she fought to secure the women and children of the House of Bëor out in the wild and the winter as their men battled to keep their retreat safe.

Soot now fell along with the snow, and the cries of the children were loud as their mothers tried to hush them and keep them quiet for the long and undoubtedly perilous retreat south awaiting them. Then, Emeldir had only known that she did not want to be one of the ones herding their people, leading them to appear as beggars at the door before the remnants of Hador and Haleth's people in the forests of Brethil. She wished to stay with her husband and the few who would remain to defend Dorthonion from complete conquest at Morgoth's hands. She could, she knew, for she was as able as any warring man, and where her husband would be, where her son would be, she wished to be also.

Yet, in a rare moment of discord – for they had found agreement in most things throughout their many years of marriage – Barahir did not share her mind. He was not moved by her pleas, and his mind was as cold iron to the hammer-blows of her argument, refusing to form or yield.

“Yet, to have you by my side is a want of my heart, a selfish want,” Barahir returned once again. “We go, most likely, to die; you do understand that, do you not?”

“Then by my husband, by my son, die I shall as well.” Emeldir had no fear of death. In that moment she held only rage and fire in her bones, so much so that she welcomed the opportunity to bring as many of Morgoth's fell creatures with her into the void as she could.

“Yet, if by my own death you may but live . . .” Barahir faltered, and she saw where he had to gather himself in order to find his words. “Do you understand that there is no greater gift to me than that? Do you not understand that I cannot . . . that I could not bear . . .” he swallowed, and for a moment he could not speak.

“And you think that I can bear giving you up so easily?” Emeldir told herself that she was iron, that she was stone, but she could feel the way her heart raced in her chest. It was a wild, unfathomable sort of pain, the idea that this could be the last time . . . but no. No. She could not think that way. She would not. “You know I cannot, so please, husband, do not ask it of me.”

“And can I so selfishly ask it of them?” Barahir gestured sharply behind them, and she knew of what he spoke: those who survived Ladros, and were even now shaking and cold in the winter, bewildered as they were to the idea of retreat and the promise of survival that rested far to the south. “Who will lead them if we both go? Who will stand and protect them if both you and I abandon them to whatever hardships the road has in store for them?”

“Andreth,” Emeldir started, but she knew that her whisper was weak, and her argument was weaker still. “She is Bregor's sister, and . . .” she winced, remembering Bregor her good-father fallen to the flames. Bregor and Bregolas had survived the flames not - placing the Chieftainship squarely on her husband's shoulders. At the memory of his own fallen family, Barahir's face was very pale, and she read the grief for his father and brother in the clear grey of his eyes.

“Yet, Andreth may not survive the journey herself,” Barahir found his voice to gently say, swallowing against another surge of grief for that simple truth. “She is old, Emeldir, and her days were numbered before Morgoth began his assault. Would you put all of these souls in her hands, when she too is grieving? When she too is . . .” but there he swallowed, and could not speak for the strangeness of it all . . . with Aegnor and Angrod Finarfinion dead, but Andreth the Wise still living . . . “No. She is an elder, and deserves to be taken care of in her old age - as she has long since tended to all of us. She does not deserve this . . . not this. Not that any of us do, and yet . . .” but again he faltered, and for a moment he could not speak. He ran a hand through the black of his hair, and she watched where soot fell from the grey strands at his temples to brush the shoulder-plates of his armor.

Even as her heart bid her to protest, to fight, Emeldir could feel as acceptance leached into her bones, turning her unsteady on her feet. Her eyes burned, alarmingly so, and her voice was thick when she admitted, “I do not want to leave you.” Her voice was low and plaintive – a child's whisper, hurt and fearful of the dark.

“Nor I you,” Barahir's voice was deep with a matching grief. Gently, he cupped her face in his hands, the affection not made any the lesser by the thick material of his gloves. “I wanted to grow old with you . . .” his words were then a choked whisper. “I wanted to bounce our grandchildren on my knees – maybe even our great-grandchildren - and find my death in my sleep, still holding you, after being content and old with my days. Not . . .”

But there was nothing more that could be said than that – not truly. Emeldir did not make her husband speak further, nor could she find her own voice to shape a reply, having no words with which to capture the consuming sort of love and heartache she felt within her. Instead, she closed the distance between them and kissed him. As if they were still youths, and passion was a new and heady thing to them, she threw herself into the embrace, reveling as he held her just as tightly and desperately in return. She was slow to let him go, as if thinking that she could meld herself to him and leave a part of herself to follow him wherever the future would lead. Barahir sank his hands into her hair, and his fingertips were bruising upon the back of her skull, but she did not care as her nails bit into the mail covering his shoulders, then wishing that they had more than this moment, more than a few seconds to make up for the years they should have had together.

For it was only seconds remaining to them, she understood as she heard the sounding of the scout's horn. There had been another Orc-host spotted, and they were coming this way.

Barahir tore himself away from her, and she saw the way his eyes sharpened to dangerous points as he looked to the north. “We will distract them,” he promised in a low growl. “Go quickly; do not rest until you make it through the pass of Anach, and then carry on with all haste to Brethil. You will be welcomed there, and if we can, if we may, later . . .”

But Barahir did not finish his words. He would not make a promise he could not keep.

And Emeldir just stared at him, taking in the familiarity of his features and the peace and contentment she knew in his presence one last time before vowing, “I will keep them safe. We will make it to Brethil – all of us,” she said her last words fiercely, as a vow, knowing that with how many little ones and elders they had amongst them, such a promise would be all but impossible to keep. But, as her husband was determined to wage his own impossible fight, then so was she. She would not fail in this – she would not.

Barahir nodded his head sharply, and said only, “I love you,” in a low voice, filled with feeling, as his parting words. His last kiss on her mouth was short and hard, and she felt her lips tingle as he turned from her to depart. He did slow in his stride, and he not once look back at her, but Emeldir knew that he could not.

She only sucked in a deep breath, knowing then that she had one last goodbye to say – one last moment to steal – as she ran to find her son where he was readying the horses with Baragund and Belegund. The brothers had already said their goodbyes to their own families, and they now looked as if they could take on half of Angband's might for the missing and the grief in their own gazes.

Emeldir felt a pang fill her as she looked on her nephews, then seeing so much of Bregolas in both of them - mourning the death of her good-brother in the space of a heartbeat she had before her attention was completely taken by her son. Beren's face looked to be impossibly young before her eyes, but his brow was lined with determination, and the anger in his gaze had him looking so much like Barahir that for a moment she found her heart heavy in her chest. She could not quite find her breath.

“Mother,” Beren was the one to greet her, standing upright in a manner that was reminiscent of the guilty way he would carry himself in his childhood when she caught him doing something he ought not. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to ask him to come with her to Brethil – to leave his father's path of certain death, to come with her and live – and she knew that Beren expected her to, as well . . . and he already had his answer prepared. She could see that in his eyes.

And so, Emeldir did not speak the words rising up so desperately from her throat. She swallowed them away, and felt them as a tearing inside of her stomach. Inwardly, she bled. “You be safe now, you hear me?” she said as firmly as she could. Even so, her voice trembled. In some ways, it was more difficult to let go of her child than it was her husband - for he was still so young to be riding off to face the Shadow like this. He was barely a man grown, and to throw away his chance at a life beyond war . . . she blinked her then burning eyes, knowing then that she would most likely never see her son wed. Beren would not take a bride; he would not have children of his own for her to rejoice in; his story would be over before it had a chance to even begin. For a moment, Emeldir could not bear the unfairness of it all.

“Keep your father safe where I cannot, and mind him when he forgets to take care of himself for looking after the others – for you know that he will,” she forced herself to continue. She could not tell if her own eyes were blurring, or Beren too was fighting away the onset of tears before her. “Do not take any undue risks, and please . . .” but she did not know what more to say than that. She only knew that . . . “Just . . . know that your mother is proud of you, and thinking of you often.”

There was another call from the front, and Emeldir understood how short their time was. Beren did too, she knew when he looked over his shoulder. Baragund and Belegund had already mounted their own horses, but neither one looked ready to force mother and son apart.

So, Beren sucked in a deep breath, and said only, “I love you, mother,” in place of all else that could have been said. She reached out, and embraced her boy for the last, thinking only about how much he looked like his father then, and marveling about how much he had grown. His arms all but swallowed her now, where once, she had carried him in the crook of her elbow as a babe.

She was crying then, she knew, and she did not fight her tears as Beren turned and at last mounted his own horse. The call to arms went up a last time, and she knew that their end had come – even though she was not ready, not nearly ready to let her child go – but then Beren was turning from her, and she had only the ash and the falling snow as her companions as she watched him fade into the unnatural dark. Behind them, Barahir's company left only footprints in the snow, until the storm took even that away, and then they were gone.

- and Emeldir awakened while it was still dark, her heartbeat thundering in her chest, even though there was no foe to fight, and the Bragollach and its devastation were now many years behind her.

Knowing that she would find little more of sleep that night, she instead slowly rose from her bed, and moved to add another log to the fire in the hearth. She stoked the embers, feeling as if she still felt the chill of that winter, no matter that it was spring now in Brethil, with the promise of warmth of summer whispering verdantly upon the air. She took cold easily as her years wore on, she reflected as she added yet another log to the fire, watching the greedy yellow tongues lick forth to take their fill. Such a thing would have amused Barahir, who always loved his thick furs and warm campfires in the wild, while Emeldir counted herself comfortable no matter the season, no matter the weather.

. . . but Barahir was not there to find amusement over the trials of her later years, and she was left to her reflections alone. For she was older now, even she had to admit. She did not walk as quickly as she used to, and her limbs were often heavy and ungainly to her use. Her hands were now more accustomed to crushing herbs and mixing potions – taking over much of Andreth's work upon her death – than she was with wielding a sword or stringing a bow for the hunt. Wrinkles creased her face more than she cared to admit, and she did not take easily to horseback or the rough terrain of their forest-home, such as had once been her delight.

But Emeldir was not so old that she did not know to accept the dream for the sign – the omen – she thought it to be . . . for it had been many years since her subconscious mind had shown her memories of her husband and son during her unwaking hours – and especially not those memories ill. And now, she wondered . . .

Sighing, Emeldir pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and sat down in her chair next to the hearth. And there she stared at the flames until the dawn arrived.



.

.

As she did all too often as of late, Melian dreamed.

Her dreams were fractured, disjointed things, coming in flashes whose meanings remained ever just tantalizingly out of reach.

First, her dreams showed to her a vision of an impossibly beautiful man, wearing the Silmaril set within a necklace of starlit stones. The captured light of the Trees played over the white glow of his skin, mingling with the soft silver of the moonlight streaming down through the thick canopy of the forest overhead. He walked amongst the trees of Neldoreth as if he were one of their ancient eaves made flesh and bone, singing a familiar song to hear ears, one that tickled her memories and made her think with a sigh: Lúthien -

- but then her dream fluctuated, shifting to show a woman wearing that same necklace. She stood on some great seaside cliff, her eyes haunting and lovely so, so sad as she stepped from that great height to surrender herself to the sea below. She fell, and Melian watched with her heart in her throat as the ocean rose forth to cradle her, holding her close and keeping her safe before throwing her back into the sky in the shape of a bird as the light of such a star shown down on the water from above -

- and then, a mighty kingdom rose from the waves underneath the light of that same star. In her dreams, Melian looked over ripe fields of amber grain and long coastlines of pure white sand. She looked, and saw a city of white, lovely and majestic to behold, before the sea rose to cover that city, swallowing its shores and fields and stone towers beneath the angry churn of the ocean. But she could still see, beneath the waves -

- another city of white stone, built in the memory of that drowned land, surging forth in a graceful spire from the mountainside it was built against. She looked, and there, before its mighty tower, a man was bowing to receive his crown. He was a man whom Melian did not know, but she nonetheless felt her heart seize to look upon him - already loving him with a great love, though she did not know his name or even the kingdom he ruled. And, at his side and on his arm, there was a woman . . . an elven-woman, impossibly beautiful, with the twilight in her eyes and the night in her hair - so much so that Melian felt her breath catch, looking on a face that bore her own daughter's likeness to the point that it was as an ache to behold. While the man looked only at the people whose keeping he had been newly entrusted with, the elven-woman – though for little longer, Melian thought as with a whisper – looked up, and seemed, for a moment, to lock eyes with her. She smiled, the expression sad and so blissfully content all at once. But when Melian tried to reach out to touch her, the dream faded away to the black of the night.

And Melian awakened, troubled, though she knew not why.

This was not the first night she had such dreams – truly, rare were the nights when she did not dream in one form or another, and most of her gleanings from the dark had the uncanny habit of manifesting as visions of the future. She wondered over her own mind then, pondering all she had seen along with what little she already knew of the days – the lifetimes - to come. Unfortunately, she found that she, as she often did, only had more questions than she had answers.

What do you try to tell me, Irmo? Melian tilted her head to wonder into the black. What secrets do you try to share with me in the night?

Irmo was silent to her queasy, as he ever was. But, this night she could not shake the song the man from the beginning of her dream had sung from her mind, feeling as if his was a presence, waiting, just beyond her reach. And then, in the far future to come . . . in such, Melian at last understood, Irmo had given her an answer uniquely his own.

“What did you see, Melyanna?”

Her husband's voice was a warm sound in the night, and Melian looked to her side, little surprised to see Thingol already awake and sitting in a chair by their bedside to look over scrolls by candlelight, though the hour was late. He wore his dressing gown, and the long spill of his steel coloured hair was already drawn back in a long queue from the tangles of the night. He had slept but little since the day Lúthien had first brought Beren the mortal-man into their halls, she knew, and though they had since found a semblance of peace following those days – for Melian had then known frustration and even resentment for her husband's actions, and only recently had their marriage begun to truly heal from those ill decisions – there were other things weighing upon her husband's mind now. Such as the Silmaril, she thought then, safe and out of sight in the Vaults deep below. Yet, she thought, often would Thingol sit awake, staring unblinkingly, while truly seeing nothing, as if convincing himself that he did not need to go down to the treasury and stare at its mesmerizing facets again. Such, she thought with a flickering of disquiet, was something to consider, and watch closely in the days to come.

And yet, with a joy then brighter than the light of the Silmaril, Melian smiled as she understood part of what her dreams had shown her. She reflected, and through that reflection she thought to know . . .

“Our daughter returns home,” she smiled to share her foresight – the first true smile she had held in what felt like far too long. “Lúthien and Beren come to Doriath . . . and they are not alone.”



~MJ

 

Nyota's Heart - I am thrilled to hear that this tale is drawing you in! As always, your comments just make my day! And it's true - those Silmarils are pesky things - and a whole lot of ill comes to Doriath, and later Sirion, for their keeping the gem, that's for sure. But, the best part of writing this has been the healing/moving on from past wrongs factor, and it has been a true joy to pen so far.

Now, here we are with more . . .

---

II​

There were eyes following them in the forest.

Though Lúthien's gaze did not serve her as well as the elven sight she once bore, she nonetheless felt a contentment and peace infuse her very bones, or so it seemed, once they passed underneath the Girdle of Melian and approached Menegroth from the south. She knew that it would not be long until her father's march-wardens sought them out, and she kept her eyes trained on the trees, taking in the tall, ancient trunks and their graceful web of interlocking branches, far above their heads. Ever was Doriath a memory of the days before the Sun and Moon, and now the forest sang with the glory of a silver spring. She heard the welcome in the song of the wood; she could feel the cadence of the trees echo in the chambers of her heart, even if she could no longer reach back and touch the souls of the eaves herself. She was content enough for them merely feeling her presence, and welcoming her in their turn.

. . . welcoming both of them, all of them, she then knew as the trees turned in curiosity, and for that curiosity . . .

Lúthien tilted her head, and felt the sunlight shine down on her face as it streamed through the leafy canopy in dappled green patterns, illuminating the shades of darkest of violets and blues thrown by the shadows of the wood. The uppermost branches were alive with birdsong, singing both to the spring and to her presence, and she hummed in the back of her throat as the winged-folk swooped down to hover about their heads before soaring to return to their heights again. She walked arm in arm with Beren as they led their horses over the rough terrain, and knew before the presence announced itself that they were watched by more than the natural gazes of the forest eaves. She looked, and peered through the shadows to see a familiar pair of piercing blue eyes, crowned by a pale head of hair, and she recognized -

“Thranduil!” she exclaimed, pleased beyond words to see her kinsman emerge from the forest shadow, quiet as a whisper to any who would have not first known where to look.

Lúthien did not have time to blink before she was swept up into an embrace and spun about. She heard Beren swallow a noise of protest, and Thranduil sat her down after half a turn for realizing her condition; his arms loosened about her, even though he refused to step away entirely. He instead settled for first kissing her one cheek and then the next, all the while holding her hands as she beamed to smile her own greeting.

When he finally stepped back from her, she turned to see Amdír in Thranduil's shadow. His hair was the same as Thranduil's - the familiar silvery-white of Elmo's line, even though his eyes were a dark shade of cobalt, a result of his father's Falathirm blood, rather than the clear, pale blue more usually seen in those of Thingol's house. Amdír was more subdued than his companion as he stepped forth to take her hands and kiss her cheek, his every movement as gentle as the highest branches swaying in the breeze. As ever, she felt a familiar peace wash over her for cousins' presence reverberating with the song of the trees.

“By Eru, it is good to see you both,” Lúthien could not keep the joy from her voice, and she was further pleased when Amdír next moved to Beren and clasped his hand before pulling him into an embrace to greet him also.

Thranduil merely watched Amdír's easy acceptance with a cool expression, before turning to address her alone. “Doriath has been dimmer without your presence, my lady; the trees themselves have wilted in your absence, and the nightingales do not sing as fairly without your voice to echo their song.”

“Silver tongue,” she rolled her eyes to say, her eyes seeking out Beren and Amdír for a moment, happiness in her heart for this one positive step towards her husband being accepted by all of her kin.

Thranduil raised a dark brow, following her gaze, and his voice turned with an imperious quality as he said, “Have you came to your senses and decided to return to your kind, my lady?” His words were only half a jest, and he still did not honor Beren with the grace of a greeting.

“No, I have not returned to stay; and my senses are quite intact, at that,” Lúthien replied pointedly, raising a brow and frowning to let him know that his words were in poor taste. His knowing her from the day of her birth, and being dear to her heart, at that, gave him many liberties, but not so many as he thought. “I feel quite the opposite, in fact. The marital union suits me, and many have my blessings been.” Yet, she knew how to turn this around entirely. Her smile sharpened, fit to cut as she said, “Such is my wish to see you as happily espoused as I. Tell me, has a maiden yet to catch your eye in the time I've been away? In seeing your happiness secured, complete would my own be.”

“Your mortal succeeded in stealing away the brightest gem Doriath had to offer,” Thranduil shrugged, not missing a heartbeat as he parried her words. “There is no one left to catch my eye,” this he proclaimed with an exaggerated haughtiness to his tone. He tossed his head, his pale hair rippling as a wave at the motion. She snorted, thinking that, sometimes, he was much too beautiful for his own good.

“Someday, some woman shall take you quite by surprise, my friend, and great will my delight then be,” Lúthien could not help but dryly predict. Yet, her humor faded with her last words, her statement then holding a bittersweet note she had not first intended.

An odd look crossed Thranduil's face as his thoughts aligned alongside hers, and she had to fight away a frown as she realized that she most likely would not be there to see her friend wed and take up a family of his own – for such was the blinking of a Man's life in the eyes of the Elder-kind. She shook her head to clear it from her moment of melancholy as her hands fell to the slight curve of her stomach, the tangible evidence of her son already more than enough to lift her spirits from any shadowed place they could think to settle in.

“But truly?” Thranduil asked then, his deep voice rumbling with the gravity of his words. “Are you happy, Lúthien?”

“More than I ever could have hoped to be,” she answered. “I am content, with both the bitter and the sweet of my choice.”

Thranduil nodded once, slowly, and his eyes took her in – from the crown of her dark hair to the dimmed light in her eyes to the now obvious roundness of her stomach, just visible through her robes and traveling cloak. His eyes were very bright, and she could see his relation to her father in the way they took on a fey gleam of knowing.

“A son?” he tilted his head to say, the movement oddly inhuman to her after living so long with Beren as her closest companion. “Such is well for you and your husband, and yet for Doriath especially. There have been . . . whispers about the succession now that your days are numbered by a mortal's counting. If not to your children, then to Elmo's sons the crown will go if any ill ever befalls your father – which, with the Shadow growing across the land, is a fate we cannot wholly disregard . . .”

He spoke delicately, and she then knew that it was his own father in particular he referred to. As the oldest son of Thingol's brother Elmo, who had long since passed, Oropher stood to gain the most should Thingol ever be taken from his role as High-king of the Sindar. Ever standing at odds with his father about a great many things, it did not surprise her that Thranduil disapproved of this course as well.

Lúthien stepped back, and thoughtfully considered her friend with a crown upon his brow. Though she knew that he would merely laugh and dismiss the idea now, someday . . .

. . . but she shook her head, finding that her moments of foreknowledge were even more burdensome now than they were when she was fully elven, and more in tune with her mother's might within her blood. Instead, she said, “If my son is to choose the endless days of the Eldar, then the option of bearing my father's crown is a choice he shall also have to make. I will not influence him, in one way or the other, but stand behind his decision.”

“Such a choice isput to the Peredhil - truly, I know not what the Valar were thinking,” Thranduil snorted to say, shaking his head incredulously. “My heart bids that such a course is naught more than pain and heartache waiting to happen; your tale is not quite done, my lady, and I shall enjoy watching it unfold in the centuries still to come.”

She heard the unspoken in his words: that even if she should be gone, there were those who would watch over her family should they choose the course of immortality, and they would be well loved during those years. But Thranduil decided against any further words or gestures, and instead looked over her shoulder to where Beren and Amdír were still trading pleasantries.

At last, Thranduil drew in a breath, and gathered himself in order to say, “My lord, it would be our honor to escort you onwards to Menegroth,” in greeting to Beren. He inclined his head respectfully with his words, even though he did not bow further than that. “That said, I wish to offer you my congratulations. Your joy is shared with this news, and great will the rejoicing of many be for the happiness you've afforded our princess.”

If Beren was surprised by the change in Thranduil's demeanor, he carefully kept such a reaction it to himself. Only when Thranduil and Amdír turned did Beren look to her and raise a dark brow in question. Trying not to smile, she returned to her husband and walked once more with him, her arm falling naturally into place about his own.

As they set out on the path, Beren leaned close to her ear to say, “That is one battle down; now there are only a hundred more to go.”

“You make it sound as if there is a war you have to wage, dear heart,” Lúthien replied, amused.

“Is it not a battle I'll ever wage for the acceptance and approval of your folk?” Beren returned. There was no censure in his voice, only a quiet determination. “But I now have an added incentive to win.”

His opposite hand came to rest upon her stomach, and he kissed the side of her hair by her ear in a brief moment of affection before looking again to the path. Lúthien breathed in deep with the forest, and felt contentment fill her, in more ways than one.

It took until late in the afternoon to reach Menegroth.

Walking the familiar trails, crossing the bridge over the thundering falls of the Esgalduin pouring into the river's underground depths, passing through the ornate arches of the Gates before continuing onwards . . . this realm was still home, in a great way, to her heart, and Lúthien had forgotten, in so short a time, the unparalleled might and beauty of the Thousand Caves. The hewn blue granite had been crafted to resemble a forest above ground, and the cleverly hidden, flickering lights all around shown as silver-starlight in a memory of the time before the Sun and Moon, when these halls had been built, with Elven hands working side by side with the Dwarves of Belegost whilst friendship between their peoples was still a special and mighty thing.

Lúthien glanced, and saw how Beren's gaze was quite taken with the glory and splendor of Menegroth. His first time in her father's halls had been a harrowing experience for them both, and he had still been too ill at ease following their re-birth and wedding to much enjoy the beauty her former home had to offer. This time, Lúthien hoped that his experience would be different.

Reception for her husband was, as ever, a varied thing. As they passed through the halls, many paused to greet her – some bowed outright, and she had to encourage them to take their places standing once more. Some wept, some laughed, and some stared at her as if they could not quite believe that she was real before their eyes. As for Beren, he was regarded with the usual mixture of looks: curiosity and puzzlement, for the most part; with curiosity for his deeds of valour, and puzzlement for his strange marriage to the Fairest-born of the Eldar, no matter the might of his mortal days. There were only a few who still treated him with haughty coolness, but those, Lúthien was pleased to see, were already few and far between as compared to the last time they had walked her father's halls.

Without pausing to ask for direction, Thranduil led them through the winding corridors and wide, yawning passages towards the royal suites, and turned before one of the smaller council rooms her parents used when the entire court was not in session for the day. Upon entering the room, she looked, and saw where her father sat speaking with Oropher and Gilornel, Elmo's only daughter and Amdír's mother, who was currently visiting Doriath with news from Círdan's folk by the sea. Also there was Mablung, the Captain of her father's march-wardens, and his foremost Lieutenant, Beleg Strongbow. The bowman caught her eyes, and smiled in delight to see her, his King's words quite forgotten as her presence was announced by Thranduil after first apologizing for their interruption.

Distantly, she noticed Gilornel rising to excuse herself, and she caught her cousin's small smile as she passed, smelling sweetly of the sea as she kissed her cheek and promised to speak to her later. Gilornel did the same with Beren, before accepting her son's arm and leaving the chamber with Amdír entirely. Mablung and Beleg followed in kind, each bowing to her as they passed, and treating her husband with much the same respect, she was pleased to see.

Oropher's gaze, as ever, was a force of cold blue fire when he looked over her. His hair was the pale silver of Elmo's line, but his features were a haughty cut of stone that looked akin enough to Thingol's to have many mistake them for father and son at first glance. Though Oropher did not have the warmth and easiness of his siblings, his was an old face to her memories, and she well knew of the days that had passed to set his mouth in such a stern line. Even so, he merely nodded once at her before brushing past Beren without a word. Perhaps later she would take the moment to reflect upon his doing so, and find fault, but she could not do so then, for then -

- both of her parents were slowly rising from their places, delight and missing warring for supremacy upon their faces. Lúthien glanced, but could not decide where to first look, whom to speak to first, whom to embrace first, lamenting then and only then that she could not reach out and hold them close within her spirit when their warmth and love instead reached out to encompass her. In the end, her choice was made for her: her father stepped forth, and Lúthien was reminded of just how tall he was when he leaned down to pick her up and hold her close as if she were still an elfling who had not seen her first century of life. She inhaled the familiar, cool sent of the forest at night that was her father, and felt tears touch her eyes when he at last put her down to meet her eyes. She stared, drinking in the familiarity of his features and the long, straight fall of his steel-grey hair, unencumbered by any braids, and held in place by his crown of twining branches, before focusing on his clear blue eyes, holding the starlight at the beginning of all things and a memory of the Trees he had been blessed to see in Aman, now so long ago. Thingol cradled her face in his hands, and the tears he had in his eyes matched her own as he looked down to see proof of the new life she carried within herself. At first, the small part of her that would ever worry for her father's approval wondered if this news would be welcomed – another obvious bend in the road she chose to take with him, as it was. Yet, almost immediately she could feel her father's love and affection reach out to embrace her – to embrace both of them – and she had a brief, blissful moment where she could see her son through her father's elven eyes, and know what a beautiful mark his light already was upon the world.

“My daughter,” was all that Thingol could whisper when he withdrew from the mingling of their spirits, and his voice was thick with emotion.

Though she could have happily remained in his embrace for days on end, Lúthien turned when she felt her mother's gentle hand upon her shoulder. She looked, and found herself quite overwhelmed by the nearly intangible beauty that was her mothers awesome might made physical form. She had always found it laughable that others referred to her as the fairest of Eru's creation when there was her mother with the stars beaming from her eyes and shining nearly translucently from her skin. There was the night itself caught within the weightless mass of her hair, and the vast mysteries of creation were tucked away in the crinkling of her eyes and the secret knowing of her smile. But, more than that was the warmth and light that was Melian's touch upon her spirit, and Lúthien turned into her embrace without thinking, finding herself almost greedy for the contact after so many years apart. Her mother too seemed just as content to hold her, and did not look as if she soon wished to let go, ever covetous and fey as her spirit truly was at its core.

Much as Thingol had, she felt Melian greet the small spark of existence that was her son, and her child's light turned into the warmth of her mother's touch in reply. She exhaled, finding her throat thick to her use as the knowledge that her son would have a place and a belonging, even after she left the circles of the world behind, was then made a certain one. At last she breathed out, and found that she knew peace – in more ways than one.

Melian at last stepped away from her, and she was pleased that her mother looked past her to gaze at Beren. Lúthien had always found it amusing that her husband found it more difficult to hold her mother's gaze than her father's, and this time was no exception as Beren blinked against the light of Melain's eyes and struggled to hold himself still. “Your majesty,” he rumbled deep in his throat, and went to bow in respect to the Maia-queen before Melian shook her own head in protest.

“Dear boy, you need not ever bow before us,” she gently corrected him, and moved forward to instead kiss Beren's left cheek, and then his right. Her voice was rich and warm, and, Lúthien noted, filled with a subtle word of power to ease the turbulent twist and flow of her good-son's spirit, wanting him to know peace in their presence. “You are a blessing to have in these halls for the joy you have brought to our daughter, and thus, to ourselves.”

Melian glanced to her husband, and after a long, uncomfortable moment, Thingol too inclined his head to Beren. He swallowed, but nonetheless brought himself to stiffly say, “Indeed, you are much welcome, son of Barahir. We find our hearts full to have both of you within our keeping once more.”

Lúthien reached out and squeezed Beren's hand, even as she caught her mother's eye with a wry look. Well, she could not help but think, he is trying, and Melian tucked away a smile of her own as she caught the thought from her mind.

“We already have quarters ready for you,” Melian continued, and Lúthien was not surprised that her mother had felt their arrival, and prepared for it. “You must be weary from your journey, and wish to rest.”

This was said with a subtle nod to her, for though she did not feel weary, she knew that the days on the road had been taxing to her physical body, and some rest would do her well for the spin of activity the next few days would be.

Yet, Lúthien was slow to leave her parents after being so newly reunited with them, and Melian clearly felt the same as she. She did not protest when her mother took her arm within her own, and offered to lead the way herself. Melian threw a glance back over her shoulder – one clearly meant for Thingol, and though both men held themselves stiffly for the arrangement, Lúthien could not help but hope that the time they were forced to spend together would do well for them.

No matter the discontentment of her husband and father, she could not help but breathe in deep with happiness as they left the council chamber behind, and walked out into the long Hall of Fountains. The leaping dances and spiraling falls of water were a song unto itself as they played in mesmerizing curves and arches, prompting an unseen minstrel to sit and strum his harp in time to the water's melody. There were a few others walking the beautiful corridor, but they respectfully gave the royal family their space, and Melian and Lúthien soon outpaced their companions, who perhaps let them have their time together on purpose.

“You are pensive,” Lúthien finally said to her mother. “I can feel your joy, but there is more to your mind than that, and it weighs upon you.”

“Is it not I who should be asking of your well-being, my daughter?” Melian returned. “Many have the days been since last you were here, and I wish not to spend our time speaking of such matters.”

“Yet they are matters grave enough to distract you from my presence,” Lúthien pointed. “Tell me, and then we may spend our days to come in peace.”

“It is nothing for you to worry over,” Melian said after a long moment, the silence filled only with the song of the fountains as they paused to linger by one of the ornate rims. “Two days ago I had a visitor the Girdle would not allow through, and I went to speak to him myself.”

Lúthien tilted her head to the side, curious. She sat down on the rim of the fountain, and trailed her fingertips through the water, waiting for her mother to find her words.

“Merely days after your return to life, your father and I received a letter from Maedhros Fëanorian, demanding the return of Fëanor's Silmaril to the hands of he and his brothers,” Melian started, for which Lúthien nodded – not truly surprised.

“What arrogance,” even so, she muttered underneath her breath, amazed that he would be so brazen after the deeds of his brothers. Though she had come to an understanding of Celegorm and the mercurial state of his fëa during her time as his captive in Nargothrond, all she had to do was recall the knife-wound of his smile, and Curufin with his bowstring drawn tight and his arrow aimed at Beren . . . she swallowed, and had to fight away a familiar surge of anger for the thought of them. No matter the wounds Celegorm could think to claim, she only had to think of dear, beloved Finrod, and then . . .

But she closed her eyes, and ceased to recall that which was still a wound, unable to hold onto thoughts of her kinsman for too long. When she looked, however, her mother was merely thoughtful, her bright gaze clearly considering.

“Maedhros Fëanorian is not his brothers; yet, even he is constrained by the bonds of his Oath. Though he has not the wish to, someday he shall have no choice: it will be a sword he turns upon Doriath if they are not given what they are foresworn to see returned. Yet, for now . . .” Melian sighed and said, “I advised your father to return the gem. My heart bodes only ill for all that jewel touches, and its great light will only blacken our own eaves, of that I am certain.”

“And will he?” Lúthien asked, then curious. She too had cared but little for the Silmaril as all three glowed from Morgoth's dark crown, reflecting their light alongside the universes she'd seen deep within the dark Vala's eyes, setting the smoke and embers of his physical form aflame with a holy light. Little more had she cared for the way Beren had not been content for merely one of the gems, but rather wished to secure a second . . . Such a hungry greed had been in his eyes, and no . . . no. Lúthien did not care for the mark of Fëanor's soul in the hallowed jewels at all.

“Perhaps,” at last, Melian answered carefully, “your father would have returned the Silmaril had the butchering of his brother's kin in Alqualondë never happened . . . had Celegorm Fëanorian never dared to assume to force you to his side as his wife . . . had you and Beren never, for that gem, gave your . . .” but there her mother swallowed, still unable to speak about her death, even in passing. “No, your father is proud – detrimentally so, at times - and he feels a wound done to him many times over by the House of Fëanor. He will not bend to their wishes, not even for the love he knew – and still knows – for Finwë.”

She then sighed, and looked down at the dancing water. Beyond them, the minstrel's song took on a mournful note, perhaps feeling the weight burdening his Queen's mind, even on a subconscious level - for such was her mother's impact on all she touched.

“Yes, my visitor these days past was Maedhros Fëanorian himself,” Melian revealed. Lúthien blinked, surprised at the news, and then curious for the rest of the tale. “He knew the barrier would not let him pass, so he simply sat on the other side, and awaited my convenience in hearing what he had to say. He . . . his is a strange presence. He . . . burns, is the best way I can phrase it, as the Maiar of Aulë - or of Melkor, once - burn in their souls. He was not disrespectful, nor was he humble, and he wished to tell me of his plan to lead the Noldor and Men sworn to them in open battle against Angband soon to come.”

Lúthien blinked, surprised to hear so. “He did not ask for . . .”

“Not outright,” Melian answered. “He said that your story had reached further than we could have possibly imagined - for if an Elf-maid and one mortal Man could come close enough to Morgoth to steal from his very crown, then the Vala is not invincible, he is not untouchable. Maedhros proposes an alliance with Doriath; he wishes to march alongside your father, and when Morgoth is defeated he will then ask for the Silmaril you captured in good faith, believing then that the actions of his brothers against you, and Alqualondë, will be more than compensated for.”

Lúthien frowned, unsure how to feel about her mother's news. “And will Adar . . .”

Melian sighed, and shook her head to honestly answer, “I do not know. Once again, your father does not trust the Oath of Fëanor not to rue the day for ill, and if our people cannot trust their comrades, what is the good in fighting side by side with them? If it comes down to the good of Middle-earth, or the call of his father's Silmarils, there is only one way Maedhros will be able to choose – all of his good intentions aside - and it is that your father is leery of. Combine that weariness with his wounded pride . . . his still festering anger . . . it is not a good mix,” Melian admitted, “and my heart whispers that there will be no fair outcome, though I'd rather . . .”

Melian paused for a moment, and then continued, “That is what we were discussing when you arrived. Mablung and Beleg are for an alliance with Maedhros and Fingon, while Oropher has seen whispers of foreboding concerning the Noldor – which he has had since they first arrived with the dawn of the Sun, at that. Disturbingly, I share his visions of ill, and yet, it is impossible to see whether or not those visions will come to fruition through our action, or through our inaction; for ever in motion is the future, and not even the Wise can clearly see its course.

“Yet,” Melian reached out to touch her hand, “no matter how the future comes to pass, we now know that hope for our kingdom will continue, even after you are gone . . . even after we are gone, should Vairë weave her tapestry in such a way. Your son will not have an easy road ahead of him if he ever seeks to claim your father's place,” this Melian said carefully, and Lúthien knew that she spoke of Oropher and others like him. “But it will be his place for the having, shall he wish it to be.”

“Yet, Adar is one of the Unbegotten,” Lúthien could not help but protest. “Long shall his rule be - endless, even. Most like my son will never know of this burden.” But she knew, even as she spoke, that it was a mother's wish that coloured her words. She let her hands fall to the curve of her womb, already feeling the fierce need to protect, to shield her child from every harm seemingly take hold of her very bones. It was an impulse she could not fight away, even before holding him for the first.

“Most likely,” Melian whispered, her tone neutral even as she spoke in agreement. Her stars for eyes dimmed for a moment, before brightening. “Yet, such days are far from us, and for now I wish only to rejoice in the fact that the daughter I bore is soon to be a mother herself.”

She stood, and wiped her wet fingers on the rich brocade of her gown. As ever, Lúthien smiled to see her mother do something so thoughtlessly physical, and turned to walk by her side once more, trying her best to put her thoughts of Shadow behind her in favor of that which was bright that day before her.



.

.

After turning to their guest quarters to rest from the road – a rest which Lúthien first professed she had no need of, but then immediately fell asleep to partake in – they roused themselves to meet her parents for the evening meal. They ate alone, but her father was already planning quite the feast to celebrate the coming birth of her son – and, more unofficially, his heir – and she listened to his planning with good humor, trying not to be too amused when Beren was drawn into her father's web more than he first intended to be. Beren found himself adding onto Thingol's ideas and compounding them, much to her father's surprise, and, she hoped – delight. Already the feast was set to be held at the end of the sennight, and her father had left at the meal's end to already begin on preparations – much to the patient amusement of both his wife and daughter.

“We are to journey to the north marches tomorrow to fetch Celeborn and Galadriel for the celebration. They are on tour inspecting the watches in Thingol's place this spring,” Beren said to her as they readied to retire that night. “I think,” he said in a low voice, as if even the walls had ears in which to overhear him, “that such was your mother's way of getting us to spend time alone together, but I was trapped by a master-hunter, and now I cannot free myself without causing a harm.”

Lúthien smiled as she sat before her vanity, brushing out the tangles from her hair and trying to hide her amusement as Beren continued, “Anyone can be sent in our place – and really, something tells me that the Lady already knows that we are here, down to the colour of your dress, if she were asked – and yet, your father himself asked for my company, and I cannot say no.”

She raised a brow, and Beren caught her eye. He ducked his glance away after a moment, and admitted underneath his breath, “Perhaps I do not wish to say no, at that. It is . . . it is good to my heart to see your happiness when you are with your family, and I must confess that I . . .”

But he swallowed, and could not finish his sentence for a lack of words in which to properly explain the thoughts she could feel as a lance in her own side. She did not need her elven empathy to see the burden of memory so clearly weighing upon her husband's shoulders, and she bit her lip, knowing then what she wanted to say – having thought about such an option on the road and then all the more so since basking in her own family's welcome – and yet, she was unsure how to shape her words in a way that would incline her husband's ear to listen. For, she reflected wryly, her father's was not the only stiff neck and unwavering will in her household, not by far.

“Perhaps,” she put her brush down to say, resting both of her hands over her stomach, as if by doing so she could garner strength from the presence of her son, “Celeborn and Galadriel are not the only kin who should be fetched for the feast.”

“Who else?” Beren summoned a smile to ask. “Do you have yet more cousins tucked away in the woods for me to attend to?”

“No,” Lúthien returned wryly, “I believe that you have now met all of my kin yet living. But I . . .” she hesitated, and dug in deep for a flame of courage, of strength – having not felt this hesitant since she stood before the shadow of Morgoth himself, the unlight of his spirit swallowing everything before it. “I, however, have yet to meet any of your folk, and I am sure that those dearest to you would be more than welcome here.”

There was a long moment of silence in reply to her words, not that Lúthien had expected anything else. She looked, and saw where a shade fell over her husband's eyes. His entire body was stiff, as if protecting itself from some impending blow, and she then felt his pain as her own, hating the reason for its existence in the first place.

“Most of my family is dead,” Beren finally said, and she could hear the telling grief to his voice as it turned brittle, rough around the edges. “Morwen and Rían will both be women grown by now, yet if Andreth made the trek to Brethil, then her years would have long since taken her. And . . .” he swallowed, but could not find his words to finish. She watched him struggle, and when he turned so that she could not see the grief etched upon his face, she stood, and came over to place a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

“Yet,” she whispered gently. “Your mother . . . if you were to return to her -”

“ - I would return to say what, exactly?” Beren finally turned on her, with more heat to his voice than she had ever heard him address her with - though she knew that such anger was not for her.

“You would tell her that her son lives,” Lúthien returned, not flinching in the face of his deflected pain. “You would tell her that her son has married, and is now to be a father himself. Such would be a peace to her, I cannot help but think, and for that peace, you too would find -”

“ - and should I tell Rían how her father died, and Morwen how hers fell; when both men were my dearest companions since childhood?” Beren interupted to return. “Then . . . Gildor, dear as he was to my father . . . Urthel . . . Dagnir . . . Ragnor . . . Radhruin . . . Dairuin . . . Arthad . . . Hathaldir . . . and even poor Gorlim - all of them had surviving family: elderly parents, wives, sisters, daughters . . . to have to tell them how their kin fell, while I walked away alive . . . How can I show my face amongst my people again, blessed as I am with both my wife and son to come, and dare to flaunt my fair fortunes when they came at cost of their lives? And . . . my mother,” he let out a breath, and ran a hand though his hair, closing his eyes against the grief that was now as a wound rubbed raw in his gaze. “My father is dead, and I was not there to fight by his side as a proper son should have been. I let him die, and now I dare to claim what happiness I may when they . . . when they cannot ever hold their loved ones again. That is in part due to me, I should have -”

“ - you should have been present to die as they died?” Lúthien interrupted fiercely, her strong voice wavering with the depth of her feelings. “If you were there, Beren Barahir's son, then you would have died as they died, and bereft would this world then be of a great light - for more than merely my own happiness is the breath and brightness of your legend, both in inspiring those living now and in influencing the future deeds of those yet unborn.” Though she had been stripped of her mother's might, and neither could she see the fabric of Arda as it wove and spun around her, this she knew, and her voice shimmered with remembered power as she uttered the truth as the undeniable certainty it was.

Yet Beren was little moved; her words were as the breeze to a deeply rooted tree as she spoke to a guilt and grief that had time sink its barbs in deep and fester for longer than she had known and loved him. “And what is that brightness to the family my father's company left behind?” Beren returned. “What does my life mean to them when I could have, perhaps, preserved even one of their souls alive . . .” but his strong fervency faltered, and his last words were little more than a whisper.

She felt a pang in her heart, twisting in empathy for his pain, for ever did she feel his wounds as a harm done to her own spirit, no matter the lack of a fey bond between them. “It was not a lack of courage on your part, but rather guile and machinations on Sauron's part that took your kinsmen from you,” softly, but strongly, Lúthien spoke. “It is that truth your kin will see, and to the true villain they shall assign blame where blame is due. And, husband, if you had been there . . .” she took in a deep breath, unsettled with the thought, even in idea only. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, and yet, I thank the Valar that you were far from that place when Gorlim's betrayal took fruit. If you too had fallen . . .” she swallowed, and could not find her words.

“Yet, if I had . . .” Beren stubbornly insisted on a whisper. “I could have . . .”

“Do you think that your mother would have rathered your death as well?” Lúthien asked him bluntly. “Your father was a great man who did great things to bring honor to the name of Bëor. Your living ensured that your father and his men were given respect in proper burial, and their souls were set to peace by your finding vengeance against those who stole them.”

“And there I was able to do away with every last Orc who spilled their blood,” Beren returned, his voice taking on a dark note. “If I did so then, I could have done the same with them, where I should have been - ”

“ - you were proved triumphant with stealth and surprise on your side,” Lúthien did not agree. “Would you have been so, taken by surprise and betrayed by a brother-in-arms as your father was? Please, Beren, think truly on this.”

“I am thinking truly; it is you who refuses to see things plainly, as they are,” Beren responded with heat to his voice. “Forgive me, but this is something that you cannot understand, and I would ask that you cease trying.”

Even understanding that he spoke to shield his own pain - the same as a wounded animal cornered and lashing out - she still felt the corners of her mouth turn downwards as her indignation flashed hotly for his words. She stood as anger laced through her veins, no less potent as it rattled between her mortal bones as it would have been with her elven blood - for she was still Thingol's daughter in all things.

“Do I not understand?” she repeated lowly, dangerously, holding the words between her teeth as a blade. “Tell me, but where is Finrod my kinsman? Does he walk these halls; does he walk alive in fair Nargothrond beyond? No; he is amongst the living no longer, and his death is a direct result of my trying to claim that which all sense said that I ought not have. Where are his companions who went with him into Sauron's clutches, ready as they were to die for us, due to the debt Finrod owed your father? What of my father's men who were slain when the wolf returned, where are they now? I must face their wives and children whenever I dwell in Menegroth . . . and Galadriel, whom I love as a sister . . . I have to endure her grief, knowing that, had I not been selfish with my own love, she would not have cause to mourn her brother. My parents, immortal beings are they, and they will have to bury their only child while knowing not if the One will ever allow a reunion between all of His children on some far off, distant day. Do you truly think that I do not understand the pain and guilt of surviving and finding my own happiness when others cannot? You cannot dare say so, for such thoughts are with me every day, and they will not leave me for as long as I walk the planes of this mortal existence.”

Only then did her voice soften, knowing that those pains were further weights her husband carried upon his soul – especially where Finrod was concerned, and she had no wish to dwell in such hurts now. “Yet,” she continued, “rather than lose myself, I am instead thankful for their sacrifice, and determined not to let the cost they paid be spent in undo guilt and grief. They would not have wanted such of me, and instead I honor them by living, and walking the path they fell to open before me. Such, I have to believe, is what your father and all your fallen kinsmen would have wanted for you. I know his son too well to believe that Barahir's mind would have been any different.”

Still, Beren stood very, very still. But he was silent as he digested her words, and she knew that he listened to her. Slowly, she came wrapped her arms around him once more, resting her head on his shoulder as she did so. Even though he still vibrated with a terse tension, he returned her embrace, and she exhaled into his warmth.

“The Haladin's holding in Brethil is but a half a day's ride west of our eaves,” she said. “Let us go to your folk; such will be a balm for your spirit as well as theirs, this I have to believe.”

“But there is nothing for me in Brethil,” Beren returned in a low voice, so soft that she almost could not hear him speak. “There is no need for the Chieftain of the Bëorians any longer, and my mother . . . my return would only cause her grief, a grief that I am loath to inflict. No . . . better is it this way, for everyone involved.”

“So you will not return to them? Truly?” Lúthien could hear the incredulity building in her voice, scarce as she was able to fathom it. She stepped back a half pace so that she was able to look him in the eye, even though his arms did not leave her. “You will deny your mother her only son – her first grandson - because you fear what anger your kin may or may not hold for you daring to survive and avenge their lost love ones?”

Beren was silent in reply, and rather than holding her gaze outright as he ever did, he looked down. His exhale of breath sounded like defeat, and it was a sound she cared not for when coming from his mouth.

“Such cravenness is not my husband as I have come to know him,” she finally whispered, her voice fierce, no matter how softly her words were spoken. “Few are the years we have to walk this earth, and if I can swallow away my pain and rightful blame for ills of old to take the time I do have with my family and loved ones, then you – who bear more courage and warmth of heart than any man I have ever known – can do the same. I know you can; I can believe nothing else of you.”

“This time you are wrong, I am not . . . I cannot . . . not this time,” Beren said, speaking still to the ground, rather than her. No matter how her stare bored into him, he would not meet her eyes. “Please, I ask that you speak no more of it this night.”

For a moment, she was torn. A part of her wanted to insist; she wanted to push and push until he gave, knowing that true peace waited down this path, and this path alone. Yet she was wise enough to know better than to pick too severely at an old wound lest she set it bleeding again.

Frowning, she simply stepped back from him, and turned towards their bed. She settled herself, and laid alone for a handful of long, long minutes. Yet, just before she was about to sit up and bid him to join her – for she had no wish to sleep alone, no matter their quarrel – she felt the bed dip underneath his weight as the one candle in the room was blown out. Beren said nothing more, and neither did she, but he still reached out to hold her in the night, and she laced her fingers through his own, vowing in the dark that she would stand as a shield for her husband against this pain, the same as she would against any other.

And then, her mind made, Lúthien let herself nod off to sleep, knowing that she would need her rest – and her strength – for the morrow now all the more so.



~MJ

 

Nyota's Heart: Your insights were all spot-on! And, really, it is what makes writing this story so interesting.

But, surprise! I have the next update. A few parts in this chapter stumped me something fierce, but I have it figured out now, and it's all full steam ahead. I believe that there will be two more parts after this, if the muse cooperates.

Enjoy!

---

III​

Lúthien woke later than was her wont; which was not unusual since the start of her pregnancy. She was merely thankful that she did not have the nauseous constitution that had all too often been her unwelcome companion as of late - determined as she was to get a start on her day without her body's interference. She turned to find Beren's place in bed already cold – he had been gone for some time, she understood, and after a brief brush of her mother's mind she knew that her husband and father had already rode out for the north-watches. Melian was holding court in her father's stead, and so, for the time being . . .

She was alone, Lúthien understood. That suited her purpose well.

After rising and breaking her fast, she put on her boots and cloak for traveling once more, and was pleased to see Beleg Strongbow trailing after her as she walked through the halls to the stables. Beside Mablung, there was not another who served her father more faithfully, and his eagle feathers braided into his silver hair, along with his kind, soft face, was a familiar countenance to her days. She had no doubt that the march-warden was assigned to see to her every need while her husband and father were away, and she did very much require . . .

“I wish to ride to the Edain's settlement in Brethil,” Lúthien declared her intentions as she slipped into the stall her grey mare was housed in. The horse nickered happily in greeting, and Lúthien stroked her brow without turning to Beleg. “While I am not so far along that I cannot saddle my own horse, I know the wisdom in riding in pairs beyond the Girdle, and I would be grateful for an escort.”

“Yet, your highness . . .” Beleg faltered, clearly unsure how to word his unease, but needing to voice it, nonetheless. Amused, she wondered if it was her father's disapproval Beleg worried for, or concern for the child she carried - able as she was to feel his gaze fall down to her midsection, and linger.

“I do not think - ” delicately, he began to protest.

“ - I am some weeks pregnant, Beleg; I am not struck ill with some incurable sickness,” Lúthien felt amusement when she noticed the flush that darkened his face. “Both myself – and my son – were hardy enough to endure the journey here from Ossiriand, so a half-day's ride into the forest should be within my ability to manage, should it not?”

“Yes, yes, of course, princess. I was not trying to imply otherwise. It is only . . .” even still, Beleg was clearly uneasy with her choice, “your husband . . .”

“My husband is not daughter to your King and asking this of you,” she finally let a hard edge enter her voice. “And Beren is welcome to join me whenever he wishes; I hide nothing from him.”

Beleg still looked uncertain, and she finally sighed to say, “Unless you intend on physically preventing me from leaving, I am departing from Doriath. You may either come with me, or report my absence when my husband and father return. The choice is yours.”

Though he would not dare sigh out of respect, Beleg's manner was still fraught with annoyance as he insisted on saddling her mare for her before fetching his own mount. She suspected that he just barely kept himself from muttering underneath his breath, and his face was pinched into a displeased expression all the while.

“I hope that you know that I would not ask this of you unless it was of the utmost importance. As ever, I thank you for your service to my family,” Lúthien sought to sooth his ire only when they reached her mother's Girdle, and walked beyond it. Seeing that Melian's enchantments let them through - and knowing that no one entered or left Doriath without the Maia-queen's express permission, Beleg finally calmed in his seat, but only just.

An hour after they passed the Girdle, Beleg had relaxed considerably, and even began to openly chat with her about her life in Ossiriand - asking about her marriage and her time with the Green-elves only when he was certain that such was a subject she wished to talk about. By the late afternoon he was whistling along with the birds, and Lúthien amused herself on his anecdotes of his time with the watches - so much so that it was like any other time he traveled with the royal family beyond the ways of Menegroth.

The forest shadows were just starting to lengthen with the afternoon when they came upon two of the Haladin – a pair of foresters, with a felled deer slung onto a stocky horse behind them. Beleg was well known to the folk of Brethil, and when he announced that the daughter of Thingol had come to visit the survivors of Ladros, the huntsmen were quick to bow and press their heads to the forest floor in awe – a motion that Lúthien was quick to wave them upright from - for she was no lady of their kind to have such obeisance done to.

“Yet, Lord Beren is the rightful heir of the House of Bëor, is he not?” Beleg pointed out after they passed the huntsmen by. “In their eyes, you are their Lady, and one long denied to them, at that. Then . . . yours is a fantastic story, even in a land full of such stories. I dare say that they will be telling their children about the time they met Lúthien Fairest-born for many years to come.”

She felt her cheeks flush pink, remembering the words she had spoken to Beren just the night before. At the thought, her purpose settled within her anew, for the proof she had of Beren's deeds having reached the ears of his kinsmen was a sobering thing. Yes, she thought as she grasped the reins more firmly in hand, she was more certain than ever that she had made the right decision.

They at last crossed into a part of the forest that she was not familiar with. She had walked through these trees centuries ago, before the Sun and Moon had risen over the land, but she had set foot beyond her mother's Girdle but rarely since then the arrival of the Noldor and the return of Morgoth to the land. However, the Haladin's settlement was an often traveled one between the Elves of Doriath and Nargothrond, and she knew that her father knew a grudging respect for the Edain who lived there – he had from the first, even when his suspicion for the mortal who would do his kingdom harm had him dealing harshly with Lady Haleth and her folk, now all of those decades ago. Though Lúthien had not been permitted to join her father's escort to deal with the Chieftess in person – as she had requested - she had watched with her mother through her Mirror, and she had been impressed by the way the human woman had handled her father's temper and arrogant condescension with deft ease. Even though Lady Haleth's hair was streaked liberally with grey, and the lines etched onto her face could be called more striking than fair, dressed in simple, sturdy armor with a plain circlet atop her head, she had held her father – one of the First-kings, Unbegotten, fairest amongst the Firstborn – as an equal, and had refused to back down or give in to soothing Thingol's pride in order to gain the concessions she wished. Ever since those first days, the Haladin had been worthy neighbors, and a part of her grieved that this was the first time she had crossed into their world from her own.

On the wings of her thoughts, Lúthien listened as Beleg spoke, and learned that it was Haldan's grandson, Haldir, who lead the Haladin now – as Lady Haleth had died childless and unwed. Which would make Chieftain Haldir . . . Haleth's great-great nephew. At first, Lúthien's fair mood sobered for reflecting on the swiftness of mortal days, feeling as if it was just yesterday that the Haladin built their homes in the forest. She frowned, once more crossing her hands over her womb, knowing that such now would be her days, and to her son, if he so chose . . .

But those thoughts were for another time, and she simply bowed her head and declared herself eager for the hospitality of Chieftain Haldir and Glóredhel his wife.

The rough trail smoothed out and widened the closer they came to the heart of the wood, and by the time they entered the settlement she noticed where the main streets had been set with cobbled stone. The system of long log houses and thatched rooftops were, perhaps, primitive to the fair elven kingdoms she was accustomed to, but there was a rustic sort of beauty to their structure, and the people she passed were smiling and content as they went about their business for the day. Few were those who stopped to take note of their passing – for common enough were the Elves to them now, and few peered beneath the hood of her cloak to recognize her for anything particularly of interest.

While she knew that the rules of courtesy should see her first paying her respects to the Chieftain and Chieftess, she instead looked around, biting her lip and wondering . . .

“Lady Emeldir lives down this lane, behind the blue door,” Beleg was the one to notice her wandering eye, and understand. “Lord Haldir holds a warm heart, and he will understand your need to seek out your good-mother. Go, and I will greet the Chieftain for you.”

Lúthien was slow in getting down from her horse, feeling suddenly apprehensive for the meeting to come - no matter all of her strong words prior to that moment. Good-mother, the idea still rang oddly within her mind as she glanced at her surroundings. A mortal woman living as a refugee amongst another mortal race . . . mother-in-law to the Princess of the Sindar, daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian the Maia . . . once, the idea would have been an impossibility to her mind. Yet, now . . .

A group of children playing a game of chase raced through the main road, having not a care between them as they darted between the horses – and one little girl courteously gave a little half nod of her head and said, “Pardon me, lady-elf,” as she ran by, already calling out in her own tongue to the boys outpacing her.

Lúthien felt her hands fall to cover her womb again, and her heart twisted, knowing that, soon . . .

Summoning her courage, finding her purpose then renewed, Lúthien left Beleg behind to look for the door he had mentioned. When she found it, she did not giver herself time to think; she knocked immediately. A soft 'enter' met her a moment later, and, holding her breath, she pushed the wooden door open to see . . .

A woman, wearing a simple grey kirtle over a dark blue under-dress, was kneeling before the open fire pit to the left side of the dwelling. There were herbs and roots spread out before her as she ground lavender with a mortar and a pestle, causing a sweet scent to hover on the air before her as a cloud. For a moment, Lúthien watched the rhythmic motions of her hands before looking up to find a face much touched by time, but still lovely in its own way to behold. Lúthien took in the steel-grey of her hair – strangely the same color as Thingol's, in fate's odd way of things – and the severe braids she had tucked back into a bun at the nape of her neck. There were still a few locks of rich brown colouring the strands, and though Lúthien found little of Beren in both the shade of her hair and the dark brown of her eyes, she peered, and found . . .

While Beren may have inherited Barahir's coloring, she recognized her husband in the height of this woman's cheekbones and the shape of her mouth. Emeldir did not look up to say, “Yes, Rían, I nearly have that poultice ready. You can tell Huor that the next time he decides to stand between you and a mountain cat, that he should - ”

But she paused in her speech, and tilted her head to the side, questioning the silence of her guest. When she looked up, Lúthien clearly saw the surprise in her gaze. She had not lowered her hood, but she did so then, finding that she did not need words to reveal her identity - not when she had her features to do so for her. While she had lost the nearly painful beauty granted to her by her half Ainu heritage, she knew that her features were still pleasing to look on, and fair enough that – as drove her to exasperation at times – she was recognized with little else needed.

“Ah, my apologies, your highness,” Emeldir amended her speech to say, “My niece is a silly, gregarious girl, and I should have known that it was not she when I did not immediately hear her prattling away.”

Fondness nonetheless touched Emeldir's eyes as she spoke, and that expression, more so than anything else, had Lúthien recognizing her husband in this woman. She knew that look from Beren's face, and seeing it was a comfort now.

Emeldir went to stand, and seeing how the motion taxed the older woman, Lúthien darted forward without a thought in order to offer her arm. Emeldir looked at her oddly, but nonetheless accepted her aid.

“Please, you need not stand on my account,” was the first that Lúthien said, and Emeldir gave a wry look in reply.

“Once you reach this age, my dear, you will find that a body stays in motion only if is first put in motion.” Emeldir blinked oddly, and then added in a voice that spoke as if through a dream, “Perhaps you shall remember that as your own days continue . . . if the stories speak true.”

Emeldir then visibly gathered herself, and Lúthien watched her stand up straight. She had a proud and noble way of carrying herself, and her shoulders were set squarely against the weight that fate had set upon them. For a moment, Emeldir busied herself with putting her pestle down and wiping her hands on the apron she had tied about her waist. She was clearly collecting herself, and Lúthien allowed her, still too much taken by the surreality of the moment to speak – all of her carefully rehearsed speeches and pretty words failed her tongue as she instead stared as if she were a child, rather than a woman grown with several millennia to her name.

“Did you make your journey alone, your highness?” Emeldir's voice was unexpectedly sharp, as if she had to say her words quickly, so they would not falter. She clearly held her breath, and for a moment, Lúthien grieved to say . . .

“For now it is just Beleg, my escort, and me,” Lúthien answered. “But I have reason to expect Beren soon.” She felt a gleam of foreknowing with her words, and then knew . . . yes, she was reasonably certain that Beren would follow her when he learned of her impromptu visit - out of concern for their child, if nothing else - and Lúthien exhaled as she felt a turning in her stomach, as if her son somehow heard her thoughts, and knew . . .

But the turning soon took on an edge, and she felt a familiar churn of nausea rise up within her. She ground her teeth together and no, she determinedly told herself. She would not deal with the mercurial state of her body that was her pregnancy thus far. Not then.

But Emeldir was watching her closely, and it did not take but a moment for her eyes to widen, and she said, “You are with child, are you not?” before Lúthien had a chance to gather herself.

“How did you know?” she asked, surprised by the other woman's insight. Her state was not entirely visible through the voluminous falls of her traveling cloak, and she had yet to give anything of her condition away – or so she had first thought.

“A child may be a rare and celebrated thing amongst an elven community,” Emeldir smiled wanly to say, “but amongst my people they are quite the everyday occurrence. I have taken over the roles of wise-woman and herb-mistress since Andreth's death, and I have seen my fair share of mothers pass through my door in that time. Then,” her face softened to say, “you cannot stop touching your stomach, and there is love in your gaze – though, not wholly love, at this moment.” Her voice turned wry, and Lúthien gave a rueful smile in reply.

Yet, her child was an unexpected bridge between them – giving them something to latch on to and speak of rather than lingering on the absent ghost in the room, and all of the questions pertaining him. When Emeldir drew out a chair for her to sit in, Lúthien gratefully accepted her hospitality, finding herself unsteady on her feet as her stomach turned angrily on itself – flooding her with a wave of dizziness from head to toe.

“The nausea comes and goes,” Lúthien confessed after a moment. “Thankfully I have been able to keep my the contents of my stomach down as of late; I had hoped these fits too would pass.”

“Unfortunately, the way your body holds itself to keep from delivering your babe too early also relaxes your stomach and digestive organs too much. That, along with all of the new things running amok in your body to succor your child - it is not a kind recipe for your stomach,” Emeldir shook her head, as if fondly exasperated with the One and his creation. “The body is a strange thing in its design, but there is a reason behind most ills.”

“As always, that which requires the greatest struggle brings the greatest reward,” Lúthien agreed. “Or, so I continue to tell myself.”

The curve of Emeldir's mouth was warm in reply. Instantly, Lúthien felt herself relaxing, unsure why she had ever been on edge for the familiarity of such an expression. She watched as the other woman went to the kettle she already had on the grate over the fire, and ground into a waiting mug -

“Ginger?” Lúthien asked when the smell hit her nose, then curious.

“Steeped in tea, it helps sooth the stomach sickness away, or, at least, it aided me when I carried Beren,” Emeldir said matter-of-factly. “Barahir would make it often for me.”

She was then silent, clearly lost in her thoughts as she occupied herself with her task. Lúthien watched her, sorrow filling her heart for the grief she could still clearly feel in the turbulence of her spirit – even with but a whispering of her mother's power.

“Mothers are always ready to bear pains for the happiness of their children,” Emeldir caught her look, however, and muttered as she stirred the crushed ginger into the hot water. Carefully, she walked around the fire to pass her the steaming mug of tea. “And now . . .” she faltered, she clearly as unsure as Lúthien for how to say what she dearly wished to say, and so:

“Beren has been a blessing; one worth more to me than anything else I've known or held dear in my life,” Lúthien said softly. Her words were low, as if speaking a vow.

“Then the stories are true?” Emeldir peered at her closely to say. “Even those . . .” she took in a deep breath, and Lúthien recognized her look of pain from the one her own parents held whenever they recalled the trials of their quest . . . and the memory of their deaths.

“Every one,” Lúthien bowed her head to say. “After Gorlim's treachery, Beren alone lived of Barahir's company; but he avenged his father and kinsman, and went on to bring honor to their names. However, he now . . .”

“ . . . fears my grief for my husband to be greater than my relief for my son?” Emeldir finished. Her brown eyes were heavy and dark - for assuming her husband's death was one thing, but to have it so confirmed . . . Lúthien felt her heart twist for her grief, old though it may have been. “My son always bore the same sense of duty his father held – sometimes to his own detriment, at that, which too was Barahir's way. Yet . . . I mourned Barahir from the day the Bragollach forced us apart, and I knew that I would most likely never see him again. But, for my son . . . how I prayed, and those prayers have since been answered. I could of asked for nothing more, and now to know that he has a wife of his own, and a child to come . . ."

Emeldir took a seat next to Lúthien, as if she could no longer remain standing. She leaned forward to rest her head in her hands, and for a long moment she was quiet. Lúthien let her gather herself, blowing on the rim of her mug and feeling the warmth from the ceramic warm her hands.

“The Valar can take much,” Emeldir finally muttered. “Yet, sometimes they most truly can give . . . my own days are at peace now, knowing that he has found happiness with his.” She met her eyes then, and they were already full with affection and warmth. Lúthien felt her own heart fill, wishing that Beren could be there, and see his mother's joy for himself. She opened her mouth to say so, wanting to share so much more – everything – when -

“Lady Emeldir, Lady Emeldir!” A bright, cheerful voice broke the comfortable warmth between them as a petite, pretty woman dressed in yellow darted into Emeldir's dwelling without first announcing her presence. Lúthien blinked against the girl's mass of wavy brown curls and blue-grey eyes – just like Beren's eyes, she thought – before she launched into speech: “They say that there are Elves from Doriath amongst us! Amongst them is the twice-living princess herself – for which Huor says - ”

The girl – and the woman was still a girl for the unsullied brightness of her eyes and the easy joy of her smile – broke off when she realized just who was there with Emeldir. Her eyes turned wide, and Lúthien thought that, for a moment, she did not breathe.

“Princess -” the girl gasped, and fell forward to kneel, her head bowed low to the floor in respect and awe. Awkwardly, Lúthien put her mug aside in order to find her feet, not wanting any of her husband's kin to bow before her.

“Please, rise!” Lúthien said, stepping forward to put a hand on the girl's shoulder. “I would not have any bow to me.”

Emeldir was slower as she followed, and her smile was wry as she said, “See? A silly, prattling girl.” But her eyes were warm with fondness as she introduced, “This is Rían Belegund's daughter, granddaughter to my husband's brother, Bregolas. Rían,” Emeldir said as the girl stood, “this is -”

“ - how can we not know who she is?” Rían was still wide-eyed to say. “There have been such stories, and now . . .”

They heard voices from beyond then, as if a crowd was milling outside the door. Emeldir raised a brow when they saw the shadows of peering faces move against the windows. “Who have you told about our visitor?” Emeldir asked, raising a brow at her niece.

“Only one or two,” Rían said, though her cheeks flushed. “My friend Haldes, and widow Balenth, who was speaking to her mother at the time -”

“Which means that all of Brethil now knows,” Emeldir sighed to say, though her exasperation remained fond. She then turned to Lúthien to say, “There will be no rest amongst the people until they see you now. I hope that you have a strong constitution, your highness, for the ways of Men can be less . . . constrained than the manners of Elven-kind, or so I have observed in my days.”

Lúthien smiled in answer, for while she did prefer to spend her time with her husband's mother, she was curious about the rest of Beren's kin, as well. Now . . .“This shall be one of the more joyous battles I have waged in my time,” she assured Emeldir.

“So we have heard,” Emeldir muttered, and Lúthien saw the flash of curiosity in her eyes, of question, and an ache filled her when the expression reminded her of Beren.

“I look forward to telling you the tale in its entirety,” she said, reaching out to take the mortal-woman's hands in her own.

“And I look forward to listening,” Emeldir squeezed her hands in reply. “Now, to greet the vultures,” this she said with a look over her shoulder at Rían – who flushed – and they stepped out into the dappled forest light.

Lúthien found her time much diverted amongst the Haladin and the surviving Bëorians, few as they unfortunately were. But it was a splendid way to pass the afternoon, and she enjoyed every moment of the gay hospitality the Edain summoned on such short-notice.

Eventually, they were invited to the house of Chieftain Haldir, who was having what a feast he could prepared for her without forewarning for his household. She tried to protest, saying that she needed not of such treatment, but she was quickly shushed by Glóredhel, Haldir's wife, who said that such was a celebration for them, and they were glad and eager to do so. Also, an expecting mother was not just caring for herself – but for two, and they considered it their privilege to see Bëor's heir provided for to the best of their ability. Lady Glóredhel had only one son who survived past infancy, and thus, Emeldir told her in a sad whisper, she considered it her duty to take care of any mothers and their children who came her way - rather than letting her own bitter longing consume her. Hearing such, Lúthien let the mortal woman fuss over her – no matter that her own years were many thousands more than Glóredhel's.

As the women of the household bustled around her – for she was allowed to do nothing in the kitchens but sit and observe – Emeldir explained the further reach of their family since the refugees of Ladros were taken in by the Haladin. Glóredhel herself was of the house of Hador – which was telling from her warm eyes of blue-green, and the still lovely shade of her yellow-gold hair. Her brother, who was the Lord of the Hadorians in Dor-Lómin, had married Haldir's sister, Hareth, while Glóredhel married Chieftain Haldir to tie their two Houses together. Though the match had been a political one, Glóredhel was much bound to her husband, and even after many years of marriage she still flushed to say that she could not imagine life without him. Lúthien listened to her tales with much fondness, already liking the Chieftess for the easy way she carried herself around Emeldir – with the two woman obviously being close friends in the face of their own respective tragedies.

Following, Lúthien was pleased to be introduced to Glóredhel and Haldir's only son Handir – a large, hulking lad with his mother's coloring – and Beldis his wife, who was one of the dark haired survivors of Dorthonion. She was a quiet, willowy girl, but Handir was all smiles and clumsy grace around his new wife as he constantly peeked into the kitchens to see if there was a task they could burden him with so as to make his wife's way easier, and Lúthien counted them all as kin she was eager to know better in the days to come.

Beldis, it turned out, was not the only woman the Haladin and Hadorians had welcomed into their ruling families through marriage - and thus preserve the name of Bëor alive where so many of his line had fallen, Lúthien understood with a pang. Glóredhel's brother had two sons, Huor and Húrin, both of whom had been fostered for a time in Brethil - where Húrin had grown to love Morwen Baragund's daughter, and asked her to be his wife. Huor, meanwhile, had been enchanted by Rían, further tying together the Three Houses of Men as one. Lúthien looked at the couple, and saw that there was little of the necessity in Rían marrying Huor – she fairly beamed at the young man, and she wore her heart in her eyes whenever he was near. Morwen, she was told, had a similar bond with Húrin, though they lived in Dor-Lómin now.

Lúthien paid careful attention, determined to master the quickly growing – and ever spiraling – family tree that was her husband's kin. Emeldir's eyes twinkled, and she assured her that she would assist her with the names – for it was not something to be memorized overnight. Lúthien, assured by this, was happy to sit down with the family at supper, both listening and giving tales of her own kin in return. When the last course was finally being served with warm spiced ale - and more ginger tea for Lúthien - she found herself listening more than she spoke, finding Huor, in particular, to be a veritable fountain of stories and anecdotes. For his relative youth, he had already seen and done much in life, and he had stories of the elven world that even she was not privy to - with his family serving first the Noldor-king Fingolfin, and then Fingon his son when he took up his father's crown - neither of whom Lúthien had ever met due to Thingol's aversion to the Noldor following the atrocities committed at Alqualondë.

But Huor had nothing but praise to sing of Fingolfin's sons, whom Dor-Lómin swore fealty to. He spoke but sparingly of his time in Gondolin, though his eyes were heavy with affection for Turgon and his daughter – of whom Lúthien had already heard flattering tales from Galadriel and Finrod, as well. Of Fingon he spoke even more so, and his anecdotes were shared by Glóredhel, who held the Elven-king in high regard. For all in the family, she carefully noticed, zeal touched their voices when they spoke of the assault on Morgoth soon to come.

“And you truly believe yourselves capable of victory?” Lúthien found herself asking, remembering her conversation with Melian just the day before. A part of her was curious for their answer, while another part of her was cautious – unsure as she was for where her people should put their faith, and pledge their steel in the days to come.

“Indeed,” Huor inclined his head to say. She looked, and saw that he had his cutlery clasped firmly in hand, and his mouth made a fierce line upon his face. “Even before the inspiration of your tale, we were determined to end the tyranny of the Foe in the North. There is no help coming to us from the Powers in the West, and it is to us to protect our families and take what peace we may when it is not so easily handed to us.”

“And you believe that Noldorin swords will win you that battle? It is not only King Fingon you would be following, but the sons of Fëanor, as well.” Delicately, she ensured that there was no censure in her voice - only an open, honest consideration.

“They have helped keep our borders safe so far,” Huor was equally as careful with his words - but she could hear the unspoken depths of feeling within his tone, nonetheless. “Mankind would not be as we are now if not for our Noldorin allies, and I thank the One for them, as I do for all of my blessings in life.”

“Brethil's borders would not be as protected as they are if not for Nargothrond,” Haldir said softly, and in his voice too there was a politician's careful blandness. “Unfortunately, it is an aid we know not to expect outright from Doriath, should we ever be in need.” His tone was gentle, but he spoke his words while meeting her eyes, nonetheless. By his side, Glóredhel took her husband's hand within her own.

“Of course, only well do we know the elder of Fëanor's sons,” Huor was then quick to say – perhaps well knowing the ills that she, and those dear to her, had suffered at the hands of Celegorm and Curufin Fëanorian. “Maedhros and Maglor both I would follow into any battle – there is a fire about the eldest lord which is contagious, and Maglor is all gentle wisdom and sage council. He can make the greatest of our bards weep with just his harp alone – I find it difficult to believe that there can be any ill deed assigned to such a voice.”

Lúthien thought of Daeron, long lost to Doriath now, and said nothing.

“Lord Caranthir was dear to our people during the time we dwelt in Estolad,” Haldir rumbled. “Haldan, my grandfather, had many stories to tell of the Elf-lord. He held affection and respect for our Lady Haleth – may the One keep her in His memory – and it is through his aid that we sit here now, so many generations later. Not a one of my forefathers would have escaped the destruction of Thargelion otherwise.”

“Those other two, however,” Emeldir frowned, and the lash of her tongue left none in doubt of whom she spoke, “took too much of Finrod's hospitality, and abused it sorely. Yet, we never had any dealings with them – for they wanted but little to do with us.”

“There was nothing in their gazes when they looked down on us, or so I thought whenever business with Finrod called me to Nargothrond. We were not even worth their scorn, for so quickly did they believe us to pass from the circles of the world,” Haldir frowned to add. “But our concerns are shared by the eldest: Maedhros will allow no command to rest in the hands of Celegorm and Curufin; they will simply fight on the lines as we all shall fight.”

Yet, knowing that they would even walk the same battlefield, hungry, not for Morgoth's defeat, but for the remaining two Silmarils blazing from the Dark Lord's crown . . .

Lúthien frowned down at her tea, knowing that, for victory or defeat, it would be to Doriath they turned next, and if they were not given what the were Oath-sworn to reclaim in peace, then . . .

She flinched at the sudden image she had of the beech woods, crowned by the silver frost of winter. She could hearing the sniffling of children in the forest, just as she could hear the ringing of steel as blood ran red from the underground river, knowing -

Unsettled, she reached for her tea, and took a long swallow to compose herself.

“Not everyone has a Maia and her spell-work protecting them,” Huor was the one to notice her look, and interpret it without knowing any better. “The Sons of Men live with our throats bare to Morgoth's blade, and only the swords of the Noldor have come to aid us in shielding our tender parts. When they call, we will follow; yet we hope that when that day comes, it is not only the Noldor and Men on that frontline, but every people of Beleriand who have too long lived underneath that monster's yoke.”

Huor held her eyes without blinking, and Lúthien inclined her head, knowing that he had given her much to think on.

But it was Rían who held her jaw tightly, and said from Huor's side, “I wish to speak no more of this.” She had grown all the more quiet as they talked of the impending war that would task their fighting men, and her supper was untouched before her for the pale color that had blanched her skin. She was not the only woman at the table who was disturbed by such thoughts – for Glóredhel and Beldis both looked quite the same.

And, Lúthien thought with a ghost of forewarning, these Men would fight and war and die, while her kin . . .

She sighed, and shook her darker thoughts away, forcing her mind to clear as she said, “Of course, you are joined in your wish for cheerful talk, Rían. Tell me, how did you meet your husband to be?” Her question did the trick – colour returned to Rían's face, and she smiled.

“Better would we ask that of you,” even so, Rían flushed to say. “The stories . . .”

“ - no doubt greatly exaggerate,” Lúthien interjected ruefully.

“I am not so sure; let us be the judge of that,” this Glóredhel joined in to say. At her right, Emeldir had gone very still, but in her warm brown eyes there was the glow of expectation. In answer, Lúthien took in a deep breath, knowing that her time to speak had come.

“Perhaps I should go back to the very beginning,” her hands settled over her womb to say. “It started when word of a lone man in Dorthonion, standing brave against the Shadow made its way into my father's kingdom . . .”



~MJ